


Just Breathe

by Liger1983



Series: Elisabeth-verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Marriage Proposal, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 02:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11327001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liger1983/pseuds/Liger1983
Summary: A short story about the time when Dean as in Hell and immediately after his return. It features the point of view of Sam, Dean, and Dean's girlfriend Elisabeth.Named after an awesome Pearl Jam song - check it out!





	1. May

#### May

Elisabeth sat on the musty old couch watching the time tick by. The TV was on, and she was looking at it. But she didn’t see it. All she could see was the clock. Ticking. Ticking. Time was pressing on and on. It had been twenty-two minutes since she had last moved. Thirty-one hours since she had last seen her boyfriend. Three hundred and sixty-eight days since Dean had told her he was damned. And any minute now, she would hear the news. Someone would call. Everyone would walk through the door. Or maybe the world would just end.

She heard the distant crunch of gravel, then the low hum of the Impala’s engine.

“Dean!” her heart sang. A grin crossing her face, she jumped up and ran to the door, but it slammed open before she could reach it.

‘He’s going to hug me. He’s going to come in, and hug me, and tell me he loves me,’ Elisabeth desperately thought.

Sam came barreling in the door. He pushed past her, didn’t even look at her. She could hear his footsteps bounding up the stairs. Then she heard Bobby’s voice, and it distant, like she was underwater.

“I’m sorry.”

Tears slipped from her eyes, one after the other like a funeral procession. Her body went numb and she crashed to the floor. She shook her head. “Where is he, Bobby? Where’s Dean?”

“He’s gone, Sweetheart,” Bobby said. He was holding back tears himself. “I’m so sorry.”

“NO!” she screamed, trying to force all of the pain and heartbreak out of her body. But it kept coming. She kept sinking, further and further into the depths until the pressure was crushing. Elisabeth folded in on herself, her arms wrapping around her middle. She curled into the fetal position and sobbed.

*****

Sam pushed past Elisabeth. He didn’t see her. Adrenalin and hunter training were pumping through his veins. They gave him tunnel vision. He burst into his bedroom. There were stacks of books. All related to witchcraft and resurrection. Or portals to Hell. He had also stockpiled bottles of booze and bottles of coffee. He heard Elisa scream. But it didn’t register. He heard her crying. He heard Bobby carry her up the stairs. He heard Bobby slam the door closed. He heard the clinking of a whiskey bottle. But it didn’t register. He downed an energy drink. He buried his nose in an old book.

He consumed all the Latin he could stomach.

But then the hours stretched out longer and longer, and bottle after bottle piled up, and shot after shot poured down his throat. His mind was a haze, the letters of ancient languages - hard enough to detangle anyways - were swimming on the page. His eyes started to drift closed, but he forced them awake again, stretching out his hand for another red eye. He cursed to find out his stash was gone. He tried to fight off sleep, but it wrapped around him like a vice and pulled him in.

Sam dreamed of Hell. Not the hell Dean was in, but his own personal hell. One where he would relive that night over and over again. The heartbreak and pain of seeing his brother die. No. Not just die. He saw Dean get ripped to shreds. The fountains of blood and the screams of agony. Then Dean’s open eyes, staring without seeing.

And he dreamed of burying Dean. How he had to drive for hours with Dean’s body in the back of the car because he couldn’t face Dean’s widow. Couldn’t say the words ‘he’s dead’. He dreamed of digging the grave, and of arguing with Bobby over whether or not the body should have been burned.

He was crushed under the knowledge that this was all his fault.

*****

Dean screamed until he was hoarse. He screamed for his brother. And for Bobby. And for his girlfriend. Dean screamed until his throat felt like it was on fire. He screamed in pain. The meat hooks, impaled in his flesh, felt like they were tearing him apart. Dean screamed until he couldn’t make a sound anymore. He screamed in fear.

“Dean, Dean, Dean.” An unfamiliar voice echoed in from all around him.

He turned frantically, looking for the source.

“Who's there?” It would have sounded like a demand, but he was too hoarse and afraid. It came out weak.

The disembodied voice chuckled. “I guess I should introduce myself.”

Suddenly, Dean was in a room. If one could even call it that. It was claustrophobically small and decorated like a twelfth-century dungeon. Blood darkened dirt floors, torches hanging off crumbling stone walls. The smell was almost unbearable. It smelled dank, like mildew and dirt. Mixed with the pungent, sour smell of rotting flesh and tang of blood. But the worst was the creature standing in front of him. He stood upright like a man, but his face was far from human. He didn’t have the devil horns and pointy beard of the cartoons. Its eyes were tight black slits, like that of a snake, surrounded by blood red pools of an iris. Its features were twisted and disfigured. He has perched on a surgically clean steel table, surrounded by a plethora of blades and clamps and torture devices he didn’t even have a name for.

The creature flashed Dean a twisted smile. “Nice to meet you, Dean. I’m Alastair. And I think we are going to be very good friends.”

The demon picked a scalpel off the table. He ran his finger over the blade lovingly before sliding it into the hunter’s neck, tracing his clavicle.

Dean screamed.


	2. June

#### June

“Elisabeth.”

Silence.

“Kitten.”

Silence.

“I love you.”

Silence.

She heard Dean’s voice in fragments. Soft and clear. Warped and broken. So familiar but so far away. She felt him in fragments too. She could close her eyes and feel his hand, warm with life and rough with callouses, cupping her face. Or holding her hand. Or touching her skin. Sometimes she could feel his lips on her own. Or on her cheek. At times they seemed as real as the tears. He was nothing more than a ghost, a spectre.

‘No,’ she thought, ‘Even ghosts are real.’

What she was experiencing was memories of Dean, broken into pieces and playing over and over like bits of a tape. If she could lose herself in them, they were comforting. She could almost imagine that her boyfriend, her love, her soulmate was still there with her. Then the illusion shattered and she was alone. Cold. Empty. Broken. And utterly alone.

She looked at the bottle of painkillers on the floor and wondered what would happen if she swallowed a handful. _Maybe I could down it with a couple bottles of whiskey?_ She might go to hell. _Is suicide a damning enough sin?_ Or she might go to heaven. But that was further away. _Maybe this purgatory is best._

Elisabeth threw herself onto Dean’s side of the bed, burying her face in his pillow. The one constant was the smell of him. It lingered on his pillow. And it remained in his shirt, which she buried herself in every night. Tears streamed from her eyes. Her body was shaking, racked with sobs, and she tried to lose herself in her memories.

*****

Sam screamed in frustration, hurling a three hundred year old book at the wall of his motel room. It was another dead end. Another. Fucking. Three. Week. Long. Dead. Fucking. End.

“Fuck!” Sam lashed out, snatching an empty beer bottle from the floor and smashing it against the headboard. He picked up another and launched it at the wall. Broken glass covered the sheets and littered the floor. He was still seething. He ripped a picture frame from the wall, and it too crashed against the floor. He picked up the lamp, ready to throw it, but three quick knocks interrupted his rampage. Sam walked to the door, resting a hand on the grip of his gun. 

‘It’s probably a noise complaint,’ he thought as he kicked a bottle out of the way.

“Look,” he said as he opened the door, barely registering the pretty brunette on the other side, “I know, I know. I’ll keep it down.”

“Not what I’m here for, Sam,” the woman said, annoyed. The hunter startled at the sound of his name. He pulled the gun out of his waistband and pointed it at her.

“Who are you?” he demanded, cocking the pistol. 

The brunette stood defiantly, with her arms folded across her chest and an amused smirk on her face. Her brown eyes flashed to black. “Aw come on, Sam. Don’t you recognize me?”

“Ruby?” Sam asked, readjusting his grip on the gun. He didn’t quite believe it. 

Undetered by his weapon, the demon pushed her way past Sam and into the motel room. She surveyed the broken glass, bottles of alcohol, and abused lore books with raised eyebrows. She said, “Wow. I never took you for a Keith Moon.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and he tucked the gun back into his jeans.

“So,” the demon said, “you gonna let me help you?”

“I’ve heard that one before, Ruby,” Sam spat, turning his back on her, “You can’t help me.”

“Dean died because you were too late,” she insisted, “I could have helped you then, and I can help you now.”

Sam gave her a weary look.

*****

The smell of rotting flesh perverted the air, sour and acrid. It was mixed with the tang of blood. Searing heat beat in from all sides. A broken body writhed on a bed of burning steel, straining against its unforgiving leather bonds. The body was barely recognizable as human. It had no skin, no features. The way it behaved wasn’t human. It looked and sounded like a wounded animal.

Alastair pressed the tip of the knife into the shoulder of it, dragging the blade slowly down the remnants of a torso. New screams erupted from the corpse. Strangled and desperate.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the demon mocked, casually slicing a new line through the body, “are you ready to get down off that rack?”

The only response was a garbled cry.

“Oh,” Alastair laughed, “I should give you back your tongue.”

He snapped his fingers, and the discarded scraps of the corpse started to move around the room by themselves. Blood slid backward from its pool on the floor, back up the broken legs, and into the frayed veins. Strips of tissue reassembled themselves. The chest, which had been stripped until it was a gaunt shell, swelled with muscle. The stomach was filled in with organs and abs. Bits and pieces rearranged themselves until they looked much more like the man they had been torn from.

“Okay, Dean,” Alastair said, “Same deal as always. Whaddya say?”

“Stick it up your ass, Alastair,” Dean growled. His voice was more gravelly than usual. It was strained from years of overuse.

“Suit yourself Dean-o,” the demon sang, “you know you’re just the guinea pig anyways. Who shall I torture today? Your brother? Bobby?”

Dean shot him a deadly glare.

“Your pretty little girlfriend?” Alastair’s smile was sinister. Dean caught a flash of blonde before he screwed his eyes shut. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “It’s not real. She’s not here. This isn’t real.”

He still heard the high-pitched, desperate screams. He could hear her sobbing, screaming, and begging for him to help her. Dean shouted, “No. No! NO!”

But the sound of her pain drowned him out. Grief and guilt ripped through Dean. And she kept screaming. 

Until it was quiet.

“Open your eyes!” Alastair broke the silence.

Dean’s eyes snapped open without his consent. And he saw the woman he loved. Bruised. Broken. Bloodied. Dead.


	3. July

####  July

By now, Elisabeth had gotten a little better. Bobby had gotten her a bottle of pills. They could drag her out of bed and through the motions of life. Take the edge off just enough for her to function. 

Her alarm clock went off at eight am. Just like it had the morning before that. And the morning before that. Routine was good. It also helped her to function. She got dressed robotically. Walked downstairs and made breakfast. Pancakes and eggs, bacon for Bobby. Just like she did every morning. 

Until there was a break in the system.

Bobby came crashing through the door, dragging another man along with him. A stranger. The man was bleeding heavily from a cut on his face, and there was even more seeping through his gray shirt. The sight of it snapped her out of the daze, her instincts kicking in. It may have been a while since Elisabeth was a nurse, but the training was still fresh in her mind.

She ducked under the man’s arm and guided him into one of the kitchen chairs.

“Bobby,” she ordered, “I need towels, a needle and thread, and some alcohol - whiskey if you have it.”

While she was busy assessing the man’s wounds, the grizzled hunter stood there stunned. The girl had barely spoken a word in months, yet here she was taking charge and giving orders.

“Bobby!” she urged. That snapped him into action. He grabbed the supplies one needed for some DIY surgery, throwing them on the table. Elisabeth worked calmly and steadily. By now, the injured hunter had passed out from pain and blood loss. His body twitched as the alcohol was poured over the cut on his stomach. Her triage had determined that this cut was the most serious. The one on his forehead was deep, but the abdominal wound was life threatening. After wiping the needle clean with alcohol, she quickly threaded it and plunged it into the hunter’s skin. Then pulled it out the other side. Again and again. It took twenty-seven stitches for the wound to close completely. When she was done, she tied the thread in a secure knot and wiped the area down again with the whiskey.

By the time she was halfway through with the stitches on the man’s forehead, he was starting to regain consciousness.

He chuckled, then winced in pain. “Glad I ran into you, Sweetheart.”

“George,” Bobby said, trying to spare the girl some pain and awkwardness, “this is Elisabeth. Dean’s girl.”

Realization dawned on the younger hunter’s face. “I’m sorry for your loss. Dean was a good hunter.”

Elisabeth gave a tight-lipped smile, trying to hide the fresh wave of pain washing over her.

*****

“Fuckkoff!” Sam slurred, slamming his hands into the chest of a much shorter -- and much more sober -- man. His hands slid off uselessly. The man hadn’t budged.

“Yeah, yeah, Guy” the bartender waved him off, bored, “you’re cut off. It’s time to go home.”

“I need ma keys,” Sam said. He raised his eyebrows and held out an expectant hand. The bartender shook his head, insisting “no way. Call a cab.”

“Yerna the bossa me!” He stepped forward, lifting his arm to take a swing, but the sudden movement threw off his already precarious balance. Sam listed dangerously to the side, tripping over himself as he tried to remain upright.

“Okay . . .” a petite brunette stepped in between the two men. She placed a hand on Sam’s chest, stabilizing him, and gave him a tight-lipped, sarcastic, ‘get-your-act-together’ kind of smile. Turning back to the bartender, the woman said, “we’re leaving now.”

“You fukkoff too, Ruby,” Sam said, throwing her hand off his chest. After a few more minutes of incoherent arguing, the demon finally managed to wrestle Sam out of the door and into the passenger seat of the Impala. She sat behind the wheel and cranked the ignition. They hadn’t found a motel yet and had nowhere to go, so she drove aimlessly. They passed signs for Shawno then Cecil and Pulcifer before circling back around to Keshena. They were in Wisconsin trying to track down a particularly powerful witch, one who had past experience with resurrection spells. But the lead hadn’t panned out. Instead of Richard Wood the powerful sorcerer, they had tracked down Richard Wood the tax accountant. Sam, near distraught, had started drinking before they reached the bar. He had pulled his late brother’s flask out of the glove compartment and hadn’t put it back down for the duration of the drive.

“So, I know the last few months have been hard on you,” Ruby started, “But do you really think getting drunk is going to help anything? It’s not going to bring your brother back.”

“Shut up!” Sam snapped. He brought the flask back to his lips.

*****  
Dean let himself melt into The Rack, coated in sweat, dried blood, and exhaustion. He had endured the latest round of many years - maybe even decades - of torture. And he had told Alastair to shove it up his ass once again. This act was his only marker of time. Without this daily ritual, the torture would stretch on for hours with no moment of reprieve and no second to ponder his fate.

“Dean, you are holding out well,” the demon clicked his tongue patronizingly, “But I really do need you to get down off that Rack. It has been so long since I have had such a promising student.”

The worn-out hunter gave his best impression of his former self, shooting Alastair a cocky smirk. “How many times do I have to tell you, Allie?”

The demon was unfazed. “If I could just get you to see yourself . . .”

Suddenly, Dean could do just that. Alastair stepped to the side, and the hunter saw a perverted version of himself - black eyes and a predatory expression. And, behind that, he could see a man, freakishly tall with shaggy brown hair, bound to a table. The man wore a mask of shock and terror.

‘Sam!” Dean thought. He repeated to himself ‘it’s not real’ and tried to close his eyes, but he was compelled to watch. Horrified, he saw the figment of himself rip into his brother. There was no art to it - none of the grace or skill that Alastair possessed - only animalistic brute. Sam -

‘No,’ Dean reminded himself, desperately, ‘Not Sam.”

\- was screaming in pain and pleading for his brother to stop. He didn’t seem to see the real Dean. The one who was struggling against his bindings. The one who’s face was twisted in anguish. The one who wanted nothing more than to protect his kid brother. Of all the torture Dean had endured, this was the worst.


	4. August

####  August 

Elisabeth sat on the edge of her bed fiddling with her old guitar. It had only been a couple weeks since she first brushed the thick layer of dust off the strings and tried to rebuild her calluses. She had played melodies. Simple, easy, fun melodies. Her favorite songs. Creep. Black Hole Sun. Smells Like Teen Spirit. It was amusing, something to do. But her heart had not been in it. When she played - even played songs that she used to love - she hadn’t felt any joy.

This time, she started the same way. Just filling up time and space. Then she tried something new. Instead of playing her favorite songs, she pulled out her laptop and googled the chords to Ramble On. It took her a few tries before it sounded like the song was supposed to. But, once it did, it lit a tiny spark in her chest. She worked out more of the song, and the spark bloomed into a flame. A warm glow started in her chest.

Elisa sat the guitar to the side, propping it on the side of the bed. She walked over to the dresser, the one she had once shared with her boyfriend. She pulled one of his flannel shirts out of the drawer - one of the few that still smelled like him - and pulled it around her body. Tucking her nose against her shoulder, she breathed in the familiar cologne. The little flame inside of her grew, and the warmth spread throughout her body. She felt peacefully close to him for the first time in a long time. The heartache was there and it was cold, but the feeling of intimacy pushed it into the background.

She picked the guitar back up again and started to play, wallowing in the memories.

_Dean was looking around her room. It had been filled with photographs of her and her friends, and of her and Dean. The walls and comforter were the baby pink color of her childhood, even though she had long since become a teenager. She was watching Dean watch her play guitar._

_“That’s sounds good, Kitten.” He sat down next to her, running his hand down her back. Grinning, he teased, “Do you know anything that’s not 90’s alt. Crap?”_

_“Do you know anything recorded after 1979?” she fired back._

_“Touche,” he chuckled, “I guess I should be going, huh? Your parents are going to be home soon.”_

_She stood up suddenly, her eyes widening, “No! No, don’t go!”_

_Dean scoffed at her, “I’m not going forever, Baby.”_

_“But, you don’t have to go at all,” she said. As she calmed, she lowered back onto the bed. Dean wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his lap as she explained, “they won’t come into my room. And, if they do, you could like, hide in the closet or something.”_

_Dean laughed, “I feel like I’m back in high school.”_

_Elisa said, “Well that’s what you get for dating a high school girl.”_

_“Don’t say it like that,” he replied. She raised an eyebrow. He continued, “Like I’m some kind of perv or something. You’re eighteen.”_

_Elisabeth giggled, turning so that she could wrap her arms around his neck. She whispered, “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”_

_They lay down together. Elisabeth curling up on her side, and Dean settling in behind her._

*****

Sam gripped tightly to the handle of Ruby’s knife, glaring at the demon in front of him. It was tied to a tree, bound tightly with rope. The hunter ran a knife along it’s chest, and it howled in pain. 

“Tell me what you know!”

“I don’t know anything,” the demon insisted, “I don’t care what your slut said. I don’t know where Lilith is.”

Ruby, who was leaning smugly against a nearby tree, said, “He knows, Sam. You need to made him talk.”

Sam gritted his teeth and slashed through his chest once more.

“Don’t hold back!” Ruby called, egging him on, “the meat suit is dead. You won’t hurt anybody.”

The hunter ripped the knife through its torso once more, going a little deeper. Bright orange light and crimson blood poured from the wound. The demon let out a pained scream. “I don’t know where she is!”

“You’re lying,” Sam said. The demon spoke through deep, labored breathing, “Even if I knew where she was, I wouldn’t tell you. There is nothing you could do to me that comes close to what Lilith would do if she found out I was talking.”

Ruby gritted her teeth. “Kill him Sam. He won’t help us.”

The hunter rammed the knife through the demon’s throat. Fiery light poured from it.

*****

Dean held a long, wicked looking knife in his hand, turning it over and feeling its weight, watching it gleam in the light of the torches. The man in front of him was bound to a surgical-looking metal table, leather straps binding his ankles, wrists, and waist. And around his chin - tight enough that he couldn’t move, but not so tight that he couldn’t scream.

Dean didn’t know this man’s story. He could be a rapist, a murderer, or he could be a stand-up, moral guy with a wife and kids. Dean didn’t know. Or care. Before he had tortured the first soul, Alastair had told him the man’s story. The guy had ended up in Hell because he was a serial murderer, one who had killed men, women, children without discretion and without remorse.

The man in front of him now was scared, his mouth was open in a silent, gawking scream.

Dean slashed the blade through the man’s chest. Again. And again. Until his chest and stomach were in ribbons and his guts were spilling onto the floor. The man’s screams were piercing. And annoying. So Dean got to work. He picked up a smaller tool, a surgical scalpel, and cut his throat open. Then he sliced through the thick ring of the larynx. Struggling to see through the rivers of blood, Dean slashed the man’s vocal chords. Now the only noise the man could make was the gurgling of his blood seeping from his throat.

Blood splatter covered Dean from head to toe. A light, crimson spray covered his face, but his right arm was saturated in a deep crimson. His eyes were cold and unfeeling.


	5. September

####  September 

A knock on the door pulled Elisabeth out of sleep. It was early morning - earlier than she would ever willingly get up. But it didn’t seem like Bobby ever slept. She heard him open the door.

‘It’s probably a hunter,’ she thought to herself. Curling back up, she pulled a dusty old book off of the bedside table. She started drifting off again, the sound of muffled voices as her lullaby. Then a series of loud bangs. She bolted upright, throwing the covers off of herself. She started running towards the door, running to protect Bobby. But she stopped suddenly at the bedroom door. She remembered that she was weak. Unarmed. That she didn’t know how to fight. She would just put him in more danger by rushing in there. So she moved cautiously, grabbing a candlestick off of a bookshelf as she passed it. Down the hallway. Towards the staircase.

“Bobby?” she said, cautiously padding down the stairs. She saw Bobby, hunched in a defensive position and gripping a knife. And she saw the back of a man. Tall. Broad shouldered. Blonde. And so so familiar.

She let a small gasp escape her lips, and the men noticed her for the first time. Bobby gave her an urgent look, and barked at her to go back upstairs. She barely heard him. Her attention was wrapped up in Dean. He had turned around and was giving her a warm smile. He wanted to move toward her. To hug her and never let go. But he knew Bobby would kill him if he made a move towards her. She didn’t move either. She didn’t know if he was real or not. Human or not.

“It’s okay, Baby,” he said gently, “Go to our room. I’ll come get you soon.”

“You won’t touch her,” Bobby spat.

Elisabeth finally snapped out of it. She ran upstairs and into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She wrapped herself in the blanket and waited. She tried not to let herself feel or react. If Bobby came into her room, then it was some kind of sick supernatural joke. Dean was still dead and she could deal. If Dean came to get her. Then he was okay, and they could resume their lives together. Or he was some evil monster and Bobby was dead.

She heard the lock click and the handle turn.

Dean.

“Hey Elisa,” he said. 

She knew he was real. She could feel it.

Elisabeth ran to him, throwing herself against him, wrapping her arms around him. He gripped her tightly and buried his face in her shoulder. He could feel her tears seeping his shirt, feel her chest shake as she sobbed. Gripping her tighter, he ran his hand over her hair.

“Don’t cry, Sweetheart,” he whispered in her ear, “I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

“I . . . I l-love you . . . so m-much!” she gasped through the tears.

Elisabeth pulled him into a desperate kiss. He returned it passionately, sitting on the bed and pulling her on top of him. They kissed, she cried, and they told each other over and over again how much they loved each other.

Being at Bobby’s, his girlfriend in his lap. It felt almost like home to him. But there was one thing missing.

Reluctantly, Dean pulled away from her, and she made a small sound of protest. He gave her forehead a chaste kiss.

“As much as I want to do this,” he said, “and I really want to do this. I gotta find Sam.”

“I thought you might say that . . . oh!”

She frowned. “You’re hurt.”

“What?” he said, confused. He watched the worry on her face as her fingertips traced the shallow cut on his arm. “Oh, that’s nothing, Sweetheart. Don’t worry about it.”

“What happened?” she whispered, “Let me take care of it.”

“I had to prove I wasn’t a shifter.,” he explained, “Really, it’s okay. Let’s just go find Sam. Do you know where he is?”

“No. He hasn’t talked to us in such a long time.”

“Okay,” Dean said, “we’ll find him.”

He took her hand in his and led her downstairs. He didn’t let her hand go while they tracked Sam’s cell phone, the physical contact the whole drive to Pontiac, Illinois. He didn’t break physical contact until he saw Sam.

Sam couldn’t let himself believe it. Dean wasn’t back. He couldn’t be. Sam had tried everything and he couldn’t bring him back. Elisabeth and Bobby must have been tricked. Or they were shifters too. Or possessed by demons. All these thoughts raced through his head as he lunged.

A couple of confusing seconds later, he was being held back by Bobby and he had somehow managed to convince himself that his brother was really back. Breaking from his adoptive father’s grasp, Sam wrapped his arms around his brother and let out a long, deep breath. All the pain and fear and desperation of the past four months left his body. He could relax. He felt the security that had always felt when he was with Dean. Ever since he could remember.


	6. September 19, 2008 - Part 1

####  September 18, 2008 

Sam, Dean, and Elisabeth stood on the front porch of Pamela Barnes’ house, watching with surprise as the pretty brunette wrapped Bobby in a tight hug.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Bobby greeted, once he had managed a breath. The woman pulled away from the grizzled old hunter, and she turned her attention to the younger ones. With a slight smirk, she looked the Winchesters up and down.

“So, these the boys? And who’s this pretty thing?” Pamela grinned good-naturedly.

Elisabeth smiled back shyly, “I’m Dean’s girlfriend.”

“And a pretty damn talented witch. I thought she might be able to help out,” Bobby said, giving her the credit she would never give herself. He turned to the boys, “Sam, Dean. This is Pamela Barnes, the best damn psychic in the state.”

Pamela ushered them into her house, into a back room - her seance room - that was decorated like a new age-y occult shop. It was dark. There were candles everywhere and a pentagram on the table cloth. Which creeped Dean the fuck out even though Elisa had told him many times that they were a harmless symbol.

Pamela moved around the room, getting items ready for the seance. As she bent down to open a cabinet, her shirt rode up, revealing a scrawling cursive tattoo - ‘Jesse Forever’. Dean cocked his head to the side, taking in the view. He asked, “Who’s Jesse?”

“Well, it wasn’t forever,” she laughed. Dean smirked, flirting, “his loss.”

The psychic stood back up, and, giving Dean a teasing smirk, “Maybe your gain.”

Then, Pamela turned to Elisabeth, who was balking at the idea that someone would so brazenly flirt with her boyfriend. The woman gave her a wink, “You’re invited too, Baby.”

Dean looked at his girlfriend, his expression giddy, like a kid on Christmas.

“Elisa, please,” he begged. She opened her mouth to respond - something about him thinking with his downstairs brain - but Pamela wrapped an arm around her shoulder and guided her towards the table. The woman said, “So, Baby, how’d you get your power? No demon deals involved, I hope.”

Elisabeth shook her head, and Pamela responded, “Glad to hear you’re smarter than that husband of yours.”

“Oh, we’re not ma -” Dean said, overhearing the conversation.

Pam put her hands up in a mock surrender, saying, “my mistake.”

But she shot Dean a quick, knowing wink, the turned back to the blonde girl. She asked, “So you were born with the mojo, huh? Me too. How experienced are you?”

“Not very,” Elisabeth responded, choosing to ignore the double entendre, “I’ve done a few spells. All white magic, and mostly just healing spells. Bobby said I’m taking to it more quickly than most, but I don’t know about that whole ‘born with it’ thing. I mean, I’m not exactly anything special.”

“Well, we’ll see about that. This thing is big, bigger than what I usually go for. I’m gonna draw some your power to see it,” Pamela explained, and, seeing the girl’s worried expression, she added, “You don’t have to do anything. It’ll probably drain you a little bit, but I’ll be doing all the work.”

“Okay,” Elisa agreed, sliding into the seat next to Pamela. The psychic guided the four people through the beginnings of the seance. He arranged the three hunters around the table, and instructed them to hold hands. She placed Elisabeth in a chair next to her, and told her to join the circle. Elisa held Bobby’s hand on one side and Dean’s on the other. Pamela placed her left hand on the girl’s shoulder, and said, “I’ll need to touch something our mystery monster touched.”

Pamela coyly slipped her hand under the table, brushing it along Dean’s inner thigh. The hunter jumped and shot a glance at his girlfriend. “Woah. Well, he didn’t touch me there.”

The psychic chuckled.

Dean glanced around the room, nervously shooting a glance at his brother. Sam hadn’t seen the huge, hand-shaped scar, and Dean didn’t know how he would react. His brother looked shocked, his jaw dropped and his gaze darted between his family members, searching for an explanation. But no one provided one. Bobby looked wearily at the scar. Elisabeth bit her lip and made a mental note to try and do something about the welt later. Pamela didn’t show any external reaction, and she placed her hand gently over the mark. And the seance began.

Elisabeth felt immediately drained, like she had been awake for days. She could barely hear Pamela’s chanting through the ringing in her ears. The world before her turned into a dark haze, and she would have pitched backwards if not for Pam’s hand on her shoulder. While physically the hand was resting gently, a strong current, almost like electricity was holding her up. She could hear shouting through the white noise, then screaming.

Dean watched the scene unfold before him, unable to help. The tension had built up to a boiling point as Pamela ordered this ‘Castiel’ to show his face. Elisabeth had been swaying dangerously, looking as though she was about to pass out. Dean glanced between them, frozen in place and unsure what to do.

Both the women pitched backwards. Pamela was screaming, white hot pillars of fire shooting from her eye sockets. He couldn’t see his girlfriend. She had been thrown out of his view by whatever was jolting through Pamela. While Bobby rushed to tend to Pamela, and Sam ran to call 911, Dean knelt by his girlfriend, shifting her head into his lap. He could feel her breathing, and knew she was alive, but he had already seen Pamela’s eyes - or, rather, the dark, empty sockets.

He watched Pamela scream and panic in Bobby’s arms. Guilt and worry flooded through him. We looked down at his girl, whispering her name and willing her to open her eyes. Dean could hear the ambulance sirens wailing in the distance, and getting closer. Bobby decided to carry Pamela out into the front room. The paramedic’s questions would only make the situation worse.

“Come on, Kitten,” Dean muttered, running his hand over her hair. Finally, her eyelids fluttered open, and he saw her beautiful blue eyes. He breathed a deep sigh of relief.


	7. September 19, 2008 - Part 2

####  September 19, 2008 

It was dark by the time the Winchesters made it back to the motel. They had followed the ambulance as it had carried Pamela and Bobby to the hospital, but were turned away at the door. Pamela was in a critical care unit, and the only person allowed to visit was her “father” Bobby. As Sam had already paid for the night, and finding new accommodations would be a hassle, he, Dean and Elisabeth drove back to the same motel he had been staying in. Dean and Elisabeth had gotten their own room.

“You think she’ll be okay?” Dean asked his girlfriend, closing the door the their room, “You’ve seen something like that, right? Working in the ER?”

“Dean,” she said gravely, “I have never seen anything like that.”

He exhaled loudly. “What a fuckin’ day. What a fuckin’ week.”

Running her hand down his arm, Elisabeth gave him a sympathetic smile. Deep creases had formed between his eyebrows and he was grinding his teeth. She told him, “there’s no reason to feel guilty, Babe. Whatever that thing did to her is not your fault.”

“Everyone around me gets hurt,” Dean said, turning away from her loving gaze. Undaunted, she cupped his face in her hand and forced him to look her in the eyes. 

“I’m not hurt,” she said, giving him a soft, chaste kiss, “And I’m always around you. I always will be. I love you.”

Standing on her tiptoes, hanging on him for stability, she kissed him fully and passionately, trying to physically convey all of everything she felt. All of the love she had for him. Their gentle kiss grew more intense. After four months apart, Elisabeth was burning for him. She wrapped her arms around her boyfriend’s neck. They were already pressed flush against each other, but she was desperate to pull him closer. 

He grabbed her hips, snapping her body against his own. Her kiss had lit a fire in him. His hands drop lower, roaming over her ass. 

Dean broke their kiss. He yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it carelessly to the side. Her own top quickly followed, then her bra. He fell backwards onto the bed. She clambered to get ontop of him. As she straddled him, she kissed his lips and he ran his hands over her back and her thighs, stopping and squeezing her butt from time to time. 

Elisa let her lips wander from his, tracing them over his jawline and kissing down his neck, leaving small love bites across his chest. 

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he growled, swatting her ass. She gasped and flinched away, inadvertently grinding herself against his hardening cock.

Dean grabbed her, flipped her over and straddled her, covering her body with his own, dominating. He pinned her arms up over her head so he could ravage her body uninhibited. She gazed up at him with wondering, eager eyes and an open mouth. 

She could feel heat and desire spreading through her, and she gasped, “Fuck me!”

Dean retreated down the bed to tug her jeans off, kissing between her breasts and playfully biting her hip. Once he had ripped her jeans off, he grabbed her ankles and forced them back towards her face, twisting her up like a pretzel and exposing her pussy. A sticky, wet spot spread across the fabric of her panties. He held her thighs with one hand, keeping her from moving, and pressed his thumb into her clit. He pushed the thin strip of material aside and shoved two fingers into her soaking wet cunt. As he rubbed her, sliding his finger in and out, she moaned and squirmed. 

“Fuucccckk.” Elisabeth threw her head back, and he kissed her exposed throat. “Make me cum!”

Dean nipped at her shoulder and rubbed her faster. Her breath came in rapid, noisy gasps. She made desperate grabs for him, clutching at his arms and shoulders, her fingernails scraping down his back.

“Dean!” She screamed so loudly he was sure the neighbors could hear it. 

“Whore!” he shouted back at her, smacking his hand down on hard her ass.

They were unapologetically loud. Everyone else be damned, they were pouring into each other the months of pain and love and desperation. It was coming out as pure, raw lust and aggression.

She twisted violently to the side, rolling them over so that she was once again on top WIth one hand, she dug her nails into his chest, propping herself up. The other reached behind her and pulled Dean’s dick out of his jeans. 

As his cock throbbed, Dean watched her. He would let her maintain an illusion of dominance for a minute. It was cute.

He easily flipped them over, taking back control. He thrust hard into her dripping wet pussy.

They lay together afterwards, sweaty and satisfied. Dean was on his back, and Elisa was curled against him, her head resting on his chest. He played with her hair and watched her as she sleepily traced his tattoos. She hadn’t made any effort to cover up. Her naked body was wrapped around his, one leg tossed over his hips, showing off the soft curve of her ass. Her golden blonde hair spilled over her torso, and her big, blue eyes gazed up at him through dark eyelashes. She looked so beautiful. He felt his heart beat a little bit faster.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly.

She lifted her head off his chest, immediately wide awake. Her chest felt light and buoyant, and she had butterflies in her stomach. 

“Are you serious?” she asked cautiously, trying not to get her hopes up. She couldn’t let herself believe that emotionally constipated, ‘no chick flick moments’ Dean was actually proposing to her. He looked relaxed and collected, laying down, smiling gently, and caressing her thighs.

“Like a fucking heart attack,” he said, kissing her forehead. He tried to pull her back to him, but she stayed upright. 

“Is this cause we just -” she started.

“Had mind-blowingly awesome sex?” he joked, “Absolutely.”

She laughed nervously.

“Elisabeth,” he said, finally coaxing her back into his arms, “spending all this time away from you . . . everything that happened today. I just can’t lose you, okay?”

Elisa stared up at him lovingly, smiling, and nuzzled his shoulder. He looked at her expectantly. 

“Say something?” he asked.

As she spoke, softly, she ran her lips across his collarbone, saying only a few syllables between kisses, “I love you . . . so much . . . I have waited . . . six . . . years . . . for you . . . to ask me . . . that.”

“Sorry it took so long,” he chuckled, tilting her head back for another kiss.


End file.
